Not In This Life
by ididfic
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Not in This Life  
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV  
Rating: Teen  
Genre: Angst/Drama  
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

0o0o

It was within two weeks after my wife's death that I stood before the hallway mirror in my house on Cavendish Place in my mourning clothes, my face almost unrecognizable to myself, its owner. I was sickly again, more sick than even I was as a young man returned from war, still recovering from fever. My face was worn and pale, my hands shook and my eyes had the hollow appearance of a man for whom life would never hold joy again.

I was older as well, bitter and sorrowful. Self-pity, that foolish indulgence, suddenly called to me wrapping me in its disgraceful embrace and I wept brokenly, not only for my poor wife who had suffered a long and weary death, but for my friend Sherlock Holmes whose death I still blamed myself for, as it happened less than a few months before the passing of my wife.

In six months time I'd lost my spouse and my best friend, a man who was more to me than a brother, more to me even than the woman I married, something I think she instinctively understood and did not hate me for. Her kindness after his loss had been the only thing tethering me to a semblance of sanity and now with her gone ...

I shuddered and turned away from the looking glass.

Where was I to go now, I wondered. What was I to do? There was no comfort for me in drink, there never had been and gambling my wife's meager estate away was too distasteful even for a sinful reprobate as myself. My practice was thriving, but my distractions were starting to affect the confidence of my patients. Slowly but surely and one by one I was handing them over to my colleague Anstruther for care. Soon, it would fade away to nothing and I would be back to my former miserable existence, this time without hope of reprieve. I was truly at the end of my rope.

It was on that day, when things appeared most bleak that the letter arrived.

It was delivered by a street Arab, not of Holmes old Irregular troop, but a new one I'd not seen before. He held it out to me with his grubby fingers, waiting patiently while I fumbled for a coin to hand him. He tipped his ragged cap to me before slipping away back into the streets, disappearing between the buildings.

I glanced at the envelope, wondering at the shaky, almost child-like writing on the front. There was only my name, no address and I stared at it, wondering what small mystery might be contained within. Most likely it was a missive from one of my readers, perhaps a little one who'd been ensnared by the myth of Sherlock Holmes and wished to know if he was really dead and if not, why I'd not gone to rescue him yet, as if my friend's life were a fairy tale that didn't have the proper ending.

These letters had a tendency to break my heart, but now, with barely any heart left to hurt, I slipped the letter opener through it with a resigned sigh. I leaned back in my chair and examined it with a distracted gaze, hardly seeing the words at all.

But the handwriting. It was different than the scrawl on the envelope, very different and very familiar.

My heart leapt into my throat, my pulse racing beneath my suddenly flushed skin. I had to grab the side of the desk to retain my balance and it was only with the most determined concentration was I able to focus on the words, that began to blur beneath my tear-filled eyes.

_My dearest Watson,_

_So many times have I picked up this pen only to put it down again, resolving that you should yet remain in innocent ignorance of the folly of your friend. How many excuses have I used, only to finally run out of them, at this, the end of the game. _

_Let me assure you that my intentions were good ones and thus I find myself on the prescribed path to hell, paved with my own foolishness. Can you believe that I only thought to protect you and your interests, my Watson? Can you ever understand that I thought that leaving you to the sweet care of your Mary in a home of your own would be the kindest thing I could possibly do for you? Can you understand my unintentional mistake, as great and grave as it is? _

_For yes, dear friend, I am alive. Not for much longer I fear as the enemies I sought to keep away from you and yours grow ever closer to their goal of eliminating the problem of Sherlock Holmes altogether. I will not bore you with the details of my deceit at Reichenbach Falls, except that it was more dumb luck than genius and what an opportunity, I thought, to free poor Watson from his obligations to his great burden, the care and coddling of a man who could bring him nothing but sorrow, by pretending Moriarty had triumphed and that I too had fallen to my death alongside of him._

_I will not dare ask your forgiveness. I do not expect nor deserve it, but I will apologize nonetheless. I am sorry, Watson, sorry that you have suffered as much as you have, sorry that I did not have the foresight to realize that even the best laid plans could be laughed at by a cruel Providence as in the case of your dear Mary's unexpected loss. I have hurt you most while attempting to spare you and this is a harsh lesson for me, one I will take the grave. _

_I have heard from various sources that you are ill, in spirit as well as body and this breaks my heart more than I can express. It is my hope that perhaps your proper indignation at my deceit will relieve some of your sorrow and that you might abandon my memory as unworthy, to concentrate more on yourself - something, if you don't mind me saying so, my dear, that you are not in the habit of doing. _

_I have instructed my brother - who, yes, has been my only confident up until now - to give you my Stradivarius violin which I wish you to sell and keep the monies for yourself. Not because you are incapable of making your own way, surely not, but because I believe you deserve some leisure, perhaps to travel and write or simply enjoy life to the fullest. I would see you in the south of France, relaxing on the beaches, notebook in hand and the sun shining on your handsome face, your eyes bright with happiness again._

_I can hardly do anything more, not matter how desperately I wish I could. Simply know this, my Watson, that your happiness is more important to me than my own. In trying to obtain that for you without your knowledge, I have severely compromised your spirit and I cannot rest until some of your peace of mind has been restored._

_Peace be with you, my dearest and best friend. You are always in my heart, until the day I pass from this miserable life, well and truly this time._

_With all sincerity, I am always yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

I will not describe how long it took me to read the missive, through the storm of tears that the first few sentences inspired. I was at turns furious and shocked, elated and destroyed, thinking that perhaps I'd lost my mind entirely and wondering if I'd been the victim of the cruelest hoax ever perpetrated on a man whether it was by Holmes himself or by some anonymous forger intent on destroying me though his art of imitating Holmes' handwriting.

In the end, I took the letter for what it was, the sorrowful confession of my dear friend who was no longer a memory, but alive - _alive _- and in desperate need of my help. Determination filled me as I tucked the letter closely to my heart, touching it occasionally to make sure I had not dreamt its receipt.

With greater energy than I'd felt in a very long time, I dressed and headed out to the Diogenes Club to speak with Mycroft Holmes who no doubt would be expecting my appearance. How surreal the world felt to me during that walk. I remember with great detail how the damp air felt against my skin, how the gray sunlight seemed brighter than before and yet everything else was a blur.

True to my prediction he was there in the Stranger's Room, with Holmes violin on his lap. "Doctor ..." he began and I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

"I need but one thing. Your brother's location. Please do not attempt to conceal it from me unless you wish the silent walls of this club to echo with my ire. You have not spared me any grief, Mr. Mycroft, and so I swear I will not spare you. Tell me where he is and I will leave here, not to return."

"And what do you plan on doing when you find him?" Mycroft asked, narrowing his small eyes at me. "I assure you he has punished himself time and again for the grief he's caused you."

"I plan, sir, on delivering him from those who would harm him and bring him back here to England where he belongs. We have suffered from the lack of his presence long enough."

Mycroft's gaze softened, the corners of his mouth lifting. "You're going to save him from Colonel Moran? That's quite a quest, Doctor. The man is wily enough to escape every agent I've set upon him since the day he began to hunt my brother."

"I'll do everything that's within my power to accomplish my task but I cannot do anything until I know where he is." My eyes began to sting and I rubbed at them angrily. "I am rather in a rush so ..."

"He's in a town close to Prague," Mycroft finished, perhaps sensing my distress and discomfited by it. "It is from where I received the package with your letter and my instructions. How much longer he'll be there is anyone's guess." With a grunt and search through his pants' pocket, he handed me a piece of paper on which was written Holmes' last known address.

Obviously, he was already prepared for my request. Without further ado, I took the paper and bowed to him with cold politeness. He held up the violin for me to take and I waved it away. "Holmes will want that when he comes back," I said simply, ignoring Mycroft's knowing grin.

"As you wish." Mycroft said, before returning to the silent sanctuary of his newspaper.

I left without turning back, the precious paper folded within my palm. How strange was it that I now had a goal when this morning I had nothing. That I had a quest, when before my life was but emptiness.

That I had my best friend -_ my heart_ - back, whether he knew it or not.

o0o0o

to be continued ...

**Reviews are appreciated. :D**


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Not in This Life - Part Two  
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV  
Rating: Teen  
Genre: Angst/Drama  
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

0o0o

It was with a soldier's dogged determination that I packed for my trip abroad. Only essentials filled my old rucksack - a single pair of trousers, undergarments, extra socks and two shirts, one for wearing while the other dried. Along with what I'd wear for the trip, it would be quite sufficient.

I folded everything quickly and precisely before putting it away. I was, by all accounts, heading into a war zone and needed to call into play all of my old training if I were to succeed. I caught a glance of my reflection in the mirror and wondered if I should try to disguise myself as well.

Doubtlessly Moran had his parcel of agents and spies, keeping an eye possibly on my own person, but most definitely on Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps there were some in the Diogenes Club itself and my lips pursed in annoyance at my rash actions. I did not fool myself into thinking that I could, like Holmes often did, disappear with the subtlety of a mist into a landscape, but I did learn a few things from the master of disguise himself during our years of association.

Disguise, as Holmes often told me, was about _reduction_. Turning the butterfly back into the caterpillar, making oneself as least conspicuous as possible, taking away everything unique about ourselves and blending into the background of life. If at all possible, it was better to take away than add to the person; a haircut was better than a wig, shirtsleeves better than a new coat.

I thought about this for a moment, glancing down at the razor I had waiting to be packed. With some trepidation I examined my mustache in the glass, smoothing it down with my fingers. I'd had it since my army days; it had been the style of all the officers and even now, almost all the serious men in London boasted one.

But this wasn't the time for vanity. Taking the mustache off would remove a defining feature of my appearance with only minor hardship. _I'll grow it back when Holmes and I return_, I vowed, taking up my small scissors to trim down what I could before shaving. The deed took only a few minutes and once done, I was surprised at how much younger I looked.

A little pomade slicking back the sides of my hair along with a flop cap turned me into an ordinary working class fellow, clean-shaven and freshly packed, traveling the continent for adventure and perhaps a solid bit of money to bring home to the folks.

I silently wondered if Holmes would be proud of me and then remembered with a fierce stab of joy that I'd be able to ask him myself once I reached my destination. As far as money went, Mary's little estate had just been dissolved leaving me with a much larger amount of cash than usual that I'd fortunately neglected to deposit in the bank up to this point.

I thought about Mary then, about how happy she would have been to send me on this journey. I closed my eyes and imagined her words of encouragement, telling me to bring Holmes back and not to worry, all would be well. Something inside my chest loosened, allowing to breathe more deeply, dispelling so many of the black clouds that had been hanging over me since the Falls.

With newfound courage, I gathered the money and my pack and my revolver, making sure to distribute the cash over my person in different places to reduce any loss from pickpockets. Not that I looked like a man who was carrying nearly a thousand pounds in bills, a veritable fortune, every penny of which I'd gladly spend if it meant Holmes could return. I hurriedly scribbled notes for my housekeeper and for Doctor Anstruther, begging his indulgence without explanation as I'd done so many times before.

Once that was done, I steeled myself and headed out the back of the house, just in case the front door was being watched. My disappearance would no doubt cause Moran's underground to go on alert but by that time I hoped to be far away. I walked to the train station - a workman in a cab would destroy the illusion I'd just worked to create. I'd brought along some chewing tobacco and tucked a bit between my cheek and gum, further distorting my appearance as well as soothe my nerves without the added burden of cigarettes. I'd picked the most crowded car to place myself in, reminded yet again of my army days, lost in a crush of disinterested humanity.

As I'd hoped, no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me and when we were settled and headed East, I was able to pull out my little notebook and start writing what I hoped would be one of my most satisfying adventures yet.

0o0o0o

Bohemia, the country where Holmes was currently hiding was a thousand kilometers away from London, over some of the lushest lands of Europe. Prague was its heart and soul and one of the most beautiful cities in all the world, filled with art and a rich culture, spanning back hundreds, if not thousands, of years. I couldn't be unhappy about my destination, only about the circumstances. If I weren't in disguise, no doubt I'd be greeted royally, remembering that the King of Bohemia still owed myself and Holmes a favor or ten for taking care of his little scandal all those years ago.

The train ride was cramped, but quiet and I divided my time between writing and looking out the window over the fields and towns rolling by. I had packed a canteen and sandwiches which kept me going through the two days journey well enough. I studied the faces of my fellow passengers, wondering if there were a smattering of Moriarty's evil agents among them, but I saw nothing but the placid, bored faces of riders headed each in their own directions for their own reasons.

Every station was celebrated in my heart as it brought me that much closer to my destination and to Holmes. I couldn't help but grin at the surprise that was sure to flash through his eyes at my unexpected appearance, perhaps he'd even throw a compliment or two my way for my underhanded disguise in that cool, detached way of his. I pictured him, still strong and able in the face of overwhelming danger and how wonderful it would be to help extract him from that peril, taking care of the cruel hydra that was Moriarty's organization properly, once and for all.

I dared not look the address Mycroft gave me more than once or twice, just in case inconvenient eyes were fixed on me at the wrong moment. He wasn't in Prague proper according to the map I'd purchased during one of our rest stops, but he was in a direct path to the center of the city, in case of a hurried escape or gathering of necessities. Clever as always, I thought, becoming more restless the closer to my destination I came.

I had no idea what awaited me once I'd arrived. Suddenly, all my well-thought out plans didn't seem quite as well thought-out as they did at the start of my trip and when the conductor finally called out _Praha matka mest! Praga mater urbium! _I was trembling with doubt. What if Holmes had moved on already? Or Moran had hit his mark just as I arrived? What if ...

What if I was too late?

The thought made bile rise in my throat. Suddenly the train seemed overcrowded and I shoved my way though as if that would get me to Holmes all that much faster. I strode through the crowd, making my way off the platform, realizing a bit too late that I didn't speak the language and I'd have to forge my way ahead with whatever tools were at my meager disposal.

Again, I was painfully reminded that I wasn't Sherlock Holmes, who could travel easily through any country on his wits alone. Still, I had my map and a huge pile of sterling which spoke in the universal language of greed. Keeping my head down, I procured myself a man with a horse and cart, pointed to the spot on the map I wished to go and stuffed a five pound note in his hand with a desperate look.

His smile was knowing and I threw my sack onto the back of the hay cart, lounging back as loutishly as I could manage while he clicked his tongue, sending the horse into a lazy trot. I pretended to sleep, kept the cap pulled over my eyes and watched from beneath the brim as we went unnoticed through the heart of the city. My journey was slow and steady and the rocking of the cart relaxed me as we headed to a less densely populated area. Some of the signposts matched my markings on the map and I breathed a sigh of relief when we were surrounded by nothing but graceful houses with small tracts of land around them, a sure sign that we were headed to Prague's outskirts.

Finally the driver stopped and nodded to me, pointing to what looked like a village, albiet one that was dank and shoddy in comparison to some of the rich neighborhoods we'd passed through. The houses here were crumbling and uncared for, men loitered on the streets as dirty children would run past, most of them barefoot.

I saw very few women, save for a knot or two of older ones, washing away at clothing in the public fountain. Most likely the streets were too dangerous for the younger ladies even at daytime which told me much about this hideaway. Sometimes, Holmes would say, a nest of vipers is the safest place for a good man especially if he's hiding from a much more dangerous foe.

I'd memorized the address by this time and set about finding it, alone, as any hint I had money on me would no doubt be greeted by bodily assault. I moved through the streets as casually as I could, looking no one in the eye, even as I myself was examined suspiciously. Finally I pulled one of the little urchins aside and with the offer of a bit of candy, I asked which house was the one I was looking for in broken German.

He smiled at me through the grime on his face and pointed to a run-down shack all the way at the very end of the street. He and the candy disappeared and I stood there for a long moment, staring at the peeling wood of the haunt's door, wondering what, if anything, would I find within. I steeled myself, or at least tried to, as my heart was tripping inside my chest in a most alarming manner.

I raised my hand to knock, when a voice within called out. "Come in."

My heart skipped a beat. I pushed lightly on the door and it swung wide, revealing a gloomy interior. Immediately I smelled pipe tobacco, not English shag, but something just as strong, the way Holmes liked it. I squinted through the darkness, wondering why no candles were lit. "Holmes?" I whispered, my entire body shaking.

I heard the striking of a match and light flooded the tiny shack, revealing the pale, sickly face of my dear, lost friend. "You're earlier than I thought you'd be, my dear Watson," he replied softly, and the world spun around me in wonderful, joyous relief.

Relief that wasn't to last very long.

0o0o

to be continued ...


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Not in This Life - Part Three  
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV  
Rating: Teen  
Genre: Angst/Drama  
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

0o0o

Frozen is how I felt at that tremulous moment when I saw my friend again after what I'd believed was his death. It seemed like an eternity had passed to my grief-clouded mind and yet, all was suddenly exactly as it was, with myself beside him in danger and intrigue, at his side until the bitter end.

Paralyzed, I stood rooted in the doorway, watching as he rose slowly from the shack's lone chair, a ragged blanket wrapped around a body that was so thin, I fancied I could see the bones of his shoulders raised sharply beneath the cloth of his shirt.

"Won't you come in?" he said. His voice, usually so confident and strident was unnaturally weak. Immediately I knew there was something wrong.

I slipped inside as he lit more candles, illuminating his sparse and uncomfortable abode. I watched as he lowered himself back in his seat with a pained expression. I found myself at a loss as what to do; part of me wanted to rush and embrace him, part of me wanted to berate and strike at the man who'd caused me such grief and yet another part ...

Another part just wanted to look at him. Listen to him breathe. Immerse myself in his miraculous presence and want for nothing more.

What followed were long moments of silence as perhaps befitted us, men who'd so often been at a loss of what to say when it came to matters of the heart. He stared at the dusty floor, abashed and, I fancy, ashamed, although with him it was impossible to tell.

I stared at Holmes, wondering if I were dreaming and deciding I wasn't, reached out to touch his arm. It was frightfully warm beneath the cotton of his shirt. I edged closer, pressing my palm to his forehead, wincing at the unnatural heat I felt there. "You're feverish," I said, immediately regretting the decision to leave my medical supplies at home.

He looked up at me, a wry grin curling his thin, parched lips. "My steadfast Watson. When will you ever have a care for yourself?"

"You should have told me you were ill, I would have prepared better," I retorted. How quickly we slipped back into our old roles, as if nothing more than a few hours had passed since the last time we'd spoken. "Where is your water? Your fire? I see a fireplace there, why is it unlit? It's damp and chill in here."

"I'm trying to avoid the attention a working chimney would attract. This home is supposedly abandoned. All except the locals know that as fact and they regard me as merely a squatter. One who cannot afford fuel."

"My god, Holmes. How can you live like this?" My throat tightened as I thought about just how low my dearest friend had been brought.

"I have not been living, my friend. Merely surviving." He turned his face away from me. "As I deserve. I can't say I'm surprised by your arrival Watson, although once I'd sent the letter to you in a fit of emotional upheaval, I'd dared to dream you'd have chosen the wiser course and left me to my fate. Did you at least sell the violin?"

"Absolutely not. We have no need for money. I've brought along the entire reserves of Mary's estate. It will be more than enough to deliver us back to England where I dare say you'll be glad to have the Stradivarius held within your grasp once more."

He shut his eyes closed tightly, as if in pain. "I cannot return to England. As for you bringing your poor wife's mortal possessions here for such a fruitless purpose ..."

"She would have given it to me for your retrieval without hesitation. She would have told me to sell the house if I must."

His hand trembled as he covered his eyes with it. "Watson ..."

"She would have," I insisted, feeling at an utter loss. "How did you expect me to react to that letter? Did you honestly think I'd sell your priceless instrument, the one that brought me so many hours of joy and frustration? Did you think I could traipse off to France without a care, knowing that you were among the living yet so far out of my reach? Did you honestly believe that I'd abandon you to such an unhappy fate?"

His voice was thick with agony. "You should have. And you're right. I was a fool to have sent that missive."

"It would have been worse for me if you hadn't. Worse for you too. Now, no more arguing. We need to get out of this wretched place and closer to a more civilized area."

It was terrible to see the look of absolute defeat that shaded his features at my words. For the first time in our association, I felt helpless and frightened. The brilliant spark that had always so animated Holmes was gone, replaced by an uncertainty that was utterly foreign to my experience of him. "To try to do so would mean death, for both of us I fear. Moran's agents ..."

"To hell with them!" I exploded. "Where are they? What can they do? I have my revolver and my aim, surely we are even in that regard."

His head hung down."My dear Watson, they have weapons that far outstrip that. Silent air-guns, able to shatter rock at a hundred yards. As for their aim, they are snipers of the utmost skill and patience. I've seen them holding sentry in the worst weather for hours, waiting for a chance to catch a clear shot of me. All too often I wonder why I simply don't give it to them and then ..."

"And then you come to your senses," I interjected. Reigning in my temper, I knelt at his feet and took his thin, all-too-white hands in mine. "You are ill and exhausted, Holmes. If you'll allow me to take some of this burden and assist you while you recover, you'll see things as not so bleak. Surely you have it in you for one more escape, if only to a neighboring town. I can help you, if you allow me to."

His hollow eyes stared at me. "I have not dared to hope for so long."

Gently, I patted his hand and rose to my feet. "Don't despair. We aren't beaten yet. I dare say that together, we will make a formidable opponent to Moran and his hounds. Are they in the area now?"

"I don't believe so, but as you see, this place isn't very welcoming to anyone."

"No matter," I said, rubbing my hands together, trying to ward off the chill. "I can still forage, at least for firewood. No arguments, Holmes. We need a fire and something for you to eat. Then we'll try to use our wits for an escape."

It seemed that he was too tired to argue with me, which upset me more than I could express. "Be careful," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

It was with great trepidation but a much greater amount of determination that I headed out to the small wooded area behind the village to gather some dry wood for burning. I was fortunate in find a tree felled by drought, giving me branches that were easy to break off and light to carry.

Once or twice, I thought I heard noises - the rustle of branches, a quick clamber over rocks - but I chalked that up to the small animals that often inhabited areas like this. I felt in my heart that it was more paranoia than true danger that was plaguing Holmes - who in their right mind would stalk a place like this where the hardship for the hunter would be as great as the prey's?

I gathered what wood I could and carried it back to the shack. It was a matter of minutes before I had a fire burning in the grate, bringing both warmth and light to the room. I gently forced Holmes to rest before it, seeing for the first time how truly haggard he was. There was still a sandwich left in my pack, which I compelled him to eat, alongside the last sips of tea from my canteen, which I'd refilled in one of the stations during my trip.

He seemed a little brighter after he finished. "I suppose you can't be convinced to leave."

"Of course I can," I replied easily. "But not without you."

"Then I must make do with your company, as undeserved as it is." Holmes tugged the blanket from his shoulders. Sweat dotted his brow, telling me the fever had broken for the time being but how long that would last was anyone's guess. "Exodus from here will not be simple. I'm afraid we'll have to be literally a pair of thieves in the night and steal our transportation. Purchasing it will be too much trouble."

"I'll leave compensation for them in its stead, more than enough to purchase twice over whatever we take," I said.

"Good enough. God knows whatever horseflesh can be found here is nearly on its last legs anyway. One of them at the Kershel's place looks as though he's been put aside for the slaughterhouse, so perhaps it will be a kindness to have him get us closer to Prague and then set him loose."

"Do you know this Kershel?" I asked.

"He's the closest they have to a governor here," he replied dryly. "A corrupt, wealthy through ill-gains, cruel governor."

I laughed humorlessly. "Then I shall quiet my conscience with that thought when we abscond his cart."

"Worry not. It certainly didn't belong to him to begin with," Holmes replied. With some digging, he produced two cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "My last pair. Perhaps you and I can share a final smoke before heading unto the breach?"

"We'll buy more when we're safe away" I corrected, taking the cigarette from his hand and noticing the fine tremors that were still running through his fingers.

Holmes didn't reply.

Finding my matches, I held out a light for both of us and together we waited for nightfall, silent and lost in our own thoughts.

0o0o

I had assumed that stealing the cart and horse would be an easy task, but I'd underestimated the difficulties in breaching Kershal's 'estate' and the protection he'd employ.

Alsatian guard dogs, a good half dozen of them, circled his property. Snarling and snapping at our scent and I despaired at getting past them until Holmes pulled a tiny whistle from his pocket and blew on it. It produced no sound, but immediately the dogs quieted and surrounded him obediently, obviously trained to obey its high-pitched tone.

"Very useful little object," he whispered. "Saved me more than once in multiple countries."

I didn't bothered complimenting him. Instead I focused on harnessing the old nag to one of the small carts, one that was just big enough for myself and Holmes to travel in. It was so tiny I'd have to tie my bag to one of the handles, but as far as I was concerned it was as good as the Queen's crystal chariot.

I was just done with the bridle when Holmes grabbed my arm frantically, pulling me down into the mud of the yard. "There!" he hissed. "See? They have found me, damn them. Watson, I will rise and give them a target and you must run. Leave me here ..."

"Hush!" I ordered him, squinting through the darkness and seeing a single lamp light waver in the distance. It was so far away, it seemed impossible for anyone to ascertain what it meant let alone that it was dangerous, but Holmes was insistent.

"It is them! Watson, you must get out of here. For God's sake ..."

"Nonsense, Holmes. Even if it's them there's no way they could hit us from that far. It's impossible."

Of course, it was at that precise moment that a boulder next to us exploded into a rain of tiny pebbles. So horrifying it was, a silent sudden attack from such a distance, I found myself dumb with shock.

Not Holmes. He pushed me down into the dirt, his already-weak body taking the brunt of the shrapnel. "Too late," he whispered. "My poor friend, why did you come? Why did I let you?"

There was something about his voice, so devoid of hope, that spurred me to rise up and find my battle legs. My revolver was already loaded and without hesitation, I rose up and took aim, firing six bullets at the specter who haunted us so.

I heard a cry in the distance that was drowned out by the renewed barking of the dogs. With superhuman effort, I pulled Holmes into the cart and whipped the already frightened horse into a run. We took off just as the village came to life, men running from their houses, rifles in hand.

There were shots that followed us then, but we were far enough away for it not to matter, at least to those ordinary bullets.

As for our 'friend' in the distance, God knows if I'd struck him or not, but it didn't matter. We were well on our way into the darkness and even as Holmes slumped against me, I felt elated at our escape. I pulled him closer with one arm as we rattled down the dirt roads, and it was then I felt the warm wetness of blood running down his back.

With a curse, I drove the horse onward, an unbelievers' prayer on my lips.

0o0o

to be continued ...

**Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews. I enjoy reading them so much. They really inspire me to keep going. **

to be continued ...


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Not in This Life - Part Four  
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV  
Rating: Teen  
Genre: Angst/Drama/Adventure  
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

o0o0o

It was a terrible ride, that midnight sojourn over rough Bohemian roads. I'm ashamed to say I drove our poor horse to exhaustion until it refused to go further, trembling and covered with foam. I set the creature loose in a field which thankfully had a nearby brook in which I filled my canteen as it drank and rested, a full moon overhead.

From my vantage point, I could see a small village nestled between rolling hills. It was there I thought to secure myself and Holmes, in spite of his protests. He had encouraged me to leave him behind more than once during our ride, weak entreaties that I ignored. I hadn't come this far to serve him to Moriarty's wolves and I wasn't going to depart without him.

If they killed us both, so be it. But I swore as a soldier - and a friend - my comrade would not be left behind.

He must have deduced my decision as he spoke no more of separating. Instead, he nodded toward the tiny town with a grimace. "We might have luck in there. From the design of the buildings it appears to be a German alcove, one of the few remaining in this country. My German is rusty, but sufficient to secure us lodgings, at least until we gather our wits. They'll have to thoroughly investigate the villages we passed first. That should give us a day or two."

I nodded and helped him from the cart, which would have to be abandoned, as was the horse who'd probably be better off in a well-watered field than anywhere else. We limped into the town, with Holmes leaning on my arm. There were dark rivulets of blood drying on the back of his neck, courtesy of an air gun's destruction.

Upon a quick inspection I saw wounds were superficial, much to my relief. A basin of water would be enough to clean it up but I shuddered to think what would happen to a human body if hit by such a projectile.

There was an inn and the owner seemed surprised at having guests arrive at such an hour. Fortunately, a few notes of English sterling made us very welcome indeed and we found ourselves in a clean, well-appointed room. The owner, bless him, sent up a very late tea courtesy of his yawning wife and I apologized and thanked her profusely in my terrible German as Holmes busied himself with closing every shutter and curtain.

His nervous movements and trembling hands told me much about his habits during his absence. Gone was the cool, collected thinker I'd known for so many years, in his place was a frightened, broken man, weary from being hunted like an animal through nation after nation. I knew in my heart that the letter he sent was his true farewell note, I had no doubt that he'd been prepared to surrender if not for my speedy arrival.

I was suddenly filled with righteous rage at the departed Moriarty, who'd had scored a victory in death that no living man could have. I wonder what inducements he'd left to his cronies to chase Holmes so doggedly - perhaps an offer of his hidden fortune upon proof of his death? The throne of his organization?

Whatever it was, I was determined they would not reap their reward. Instead, they would find themselves imprisoned ... or worse.

With stern entreaties, I made Holmes eat most of the food and we shared the pot of tea. He started to look restless so I gave him a pinch of my chewing tobacco, which made him grin.

"Snuff, eh. How out of character, Watson. Was this part of your disguise? By the way, I must compliment you on the sacrifice of the mustache, although I am sad for its loss as it is such an integral part of my mental image of you. Promise me that it is just a temporary change or I may grow more confused than I already feel."

"I've sworn to grow it back once we have returned to England. Together," I said, adding the last word for emphasis. "Holmes, tell me. Why are these men stilling chasing you? I can't believe that Moriarty has inspired that kind of loyalty from beyond the grave. Is he offering them money? Can we not make a counter offer?"

Holmes ran a hand through his hair which was starting to show gray strands at the temples. "Alas, I'm afraid there has been a certain honor among thieves, as far as Moran is concerned. They were, if you can believe it, friends of a sort, somewhat like yourself and I, minus all goodness and care, of course. Moran was his student and one of the primary lessons taught was that you never leave a dangerous foe alive. Not to mention that Moran is a famous hunter. I'm afraid I present too enticing a challenge for him to leave alone. He can hardly resist the chance to hang Sherlock Holmes next to his parcel of tigers."

"Disgusting," I murmured. "Then we'll have to fight him on his terms."

"If only we could ascertain what those terms could be. God knows I haven't been able to," Holmes sighed. He smiled weakly at me. "How exhausted you look. Lie down, my friend and sleep for now. We are safe here for a time. Perhaps your presence will inspire my tired mind to explore new routes of conjecture."

"You must sleep as well," I insisted, even as I found myself laying on the bed and nearly weeping with relief at the comfort. I had slept on the train, but it was that broken, stiff sleep one gets while traveling and oh, this ...

I was fast asleep before I realized it, even as the first rays of dawn were beginning to peek through the folds of the drawn curtains.

0o0o

I woke up much later than I intended, blinking in the light of lit candles, my nose wrinkling at the smell of tobacco smoke.

Holmes was wide awake, but he had more color in his cheeks as he puffed on a clay pipe, one he'd no doubt purchased during a foray outside. He was wearing my coat which probably hid him well enough and he was freshly shaved, his hair neatly slicked back making him appear almost like the Holmes of old, a sight which heartened me greatly.

Tentatively I sat up and reached out to feel his forehead. It was still warm, but nowhere near as burning as it had been when I found him which made me think that stress and exhaustion had much a hand in whatever illness had been plaguing him. He chuckled at my concern and dodged away from my doctor's touch, tossing me a fresh pack of cigarettes.

I lit one and inhaled gratefully, even happier to see another pot of hot tea along with supper on the nightstand.

"I have to say that with you here, I find my refreshed mind wandering toward practical matters, as in yourself being such a practical fellow," Holmes said, as I poured myself a cup and drank it deeply, as steaming as it was. "I now wonder how Moran is financing this little hunting trip of his. It must cost a tremendous amount, as I'm sure his minions aren't working for free. I'm being supplemented by my brother's wires, when I can get them, but him ..."

I took another drag of my cigarette and shrugged. "A bank account that was left to him for the purpose?"

"Accessible in Far East, where he started this little game, tracking me through Asia and beyond? No, Watson, he must have a constant, flexible source of ready cash, in all currencies, without the benefit of a brother in a top seat of government."

"Theft?"

Holmes puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. I could see the great gears of his mind beginning to turn. "Yes, but not outright theft, as it would be too risky. A type of theft that doesn't immediately attract attention ..."

"Maybe he induces people to give it to him," I suggested. "Somehow."

Holmes' eyes widened. "My god, Watson. Of course. He wins it! By cheating at games of chance. Cards and dice and ... my god, isn't he a famous club player, rooking half the young men who have the misfortune to sit at the table with him?"

"He never belonged to my club," I replied somewhat indignantly. "But I do see what you're saying. How does this help us?"

Holmes grinned around his pipe. "There are places in this world where a man who cheats at cards is in greater danger of reprisal than a murderer. Not everyone is as polite as the English, my dear Watson." He leaned back, suddenly looking satisfied. "I had not the resources to do this alone, but with you here ... how are your gambling skills, Watson?"

"Terrible," I laughed. "You know that full well."

"And how much money do you still have left?"

"Near a thousand pounds."

Holmes' grin was positively shark-like. "What do you say to us making a trap for our intrepid hunter?"

My free hand involuntarily clenched into a fist. "I'd like nothing better."

"Then we will head to Prague in the morning," Holmes said. He stood up and winced painfully as he did so. I rose as well and led him to the bed, where I bade him to remove his shirt and lie down so I could better treat those shrapnel wounds I'd not yet tended to. Amused, he agreed and put his hands under his chin, lost in thought as I bathed the dried-over cuts and scrapes with clean water. "We have to make sure we are followed and then, we will change into our new personas."

"Which are?"

Holmes suddenly looked more alive than ever and I silently thanked God for the chance to see it. "The worst - and best - card players who have ever lived."

0o0o

to be continued ...


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Not in This Life - Part Five  
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV  
Rating: Teen  
Genre: Angst/Drama/Adventure  
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

0o0o

Our trip to Prague was taken under the most auspicious circumstances. The weather was clear and beautiful and we took no precautions at all when hiring our transportation to the great city as it was our hope to be followed, eventually. Still, I couldn't help but nervously scan the hilltops for signs of a marksman, knowing full well that we were taking our lives into our hands with every mile covered.

Holmes was lost deep in thought for most of our journey. Long experience told me to be still and let him think. This was the key to success, although I was burning with curiosity as to how he would manage to lure Moran into a trap of our making. It was only when we reached the outer limits of Prague proper that he sprung to life, grabbing my arm and bodily pulling me from the carriage, ducking us both into an alley behind what appeared to be a closed factory.

"But Holmes ..." I stammered, watching our carriage ride off, the driver oblivious to the loss of his passengers.

"Now you know why I insisted you pay him at the start of our ride," Holmes replied. "No need to tempt Moran any more than we already have. We now have to shake him by melting within a sea of humanity. Remember, we are drawing him to us by letting him think he is on the hunt. I have no doubt he'll take this opportunity to refurbish his coffers."

Faithfully, I followed him through the city which he moved easily through, seeming to have an almost clairvoyant sense of direction. He tried to explain to me why most Western cities were planned in certain ways, why various shops ended up in certain areas and so on, but I was too distracted by the sights and sounds of this lovely place to pay complete attention.

We soon found ourselves standing in the tiniest tailor shop I'd ever seen. It was barely bigger than a water closet, but the gentleman running it was savvy, with keen little eyes that took in both our general measurements within seconds.

Holmes spoke to him in the native tongue with surprising ease. I could sense them haggling, but in the end the tailor nodded, pulling out from some corner an already-made evening suit, one that had probably been produced but not paid for by another customer. I nearly laughed aloud - how like Holmes to make his desires appear out of thin air when he felt so inclined.

"He can have it ready by tomorrow evening. It's wonderfully inexpensive, being that he'd planned to take a loss on it."

"You'll be wearing it?" I asked, already growing nervous at what his plan might be.

"Yes. Your lack of German and, forgive me, Watson, poor gambling skills will work at cross-purposes for the endgame, but will serve us very well for a start. I'm sorry to ask you to pay for all this, Watson ..."

"Whatever I have is yours, Holmes, as long as we can eventually escape this nightmare," I told him firmly. "Besides, I see you got us a bargain."

"The rest of our week won't be quite as cheap. But hopefully not as dear as Moran would want. Now, let us find lodgings in the center of town and inquire about the gambling clubs. I'm afraid I'll be making a dangerous request of you this evening."

He spoke with such concern, his gray eyes meeting mine so humbly I couldn't help but smile reassuringly at him. "A man doesn't shave off his mustache without certain expectations of intrigue and danger," I explained with a grin. "I should be very disappointed otherwise."

"You jest, Watson and while it does little to comfort me I can't find it in my heart to correct you," he sighed. "I have much to make up to you once this business is done, my friend."

"Once this business is done, I shall be content in all things. Now, perhaps we can fortify ourselves and you will explain to me your entire plan. No keeping me in the dark for this one, Holmes."

"No, not for this one. Or any other," Holmes agreed, taking my arm and together we searched for a quiet place to sup.

0o0o0o

Holmes plan was an interesting one, insomuch that it depended on more variables than I would have liked, but he seemed convinced it would work.

I would set the bait for the trap with an evening spent at a well-known card den where I'd present myself as a foolish, but wealthy foreigner, taking as large a loss as my pocket could handle for the night. News of such a prodigious pigeon in town would attract Moran who would sense an opportunity, drawing him to the club.

Once he arrived, Holmes, in disguise, would secure a seat at the table and take things from there.

He didn't elaborate further than that, even when I protested vehemently that such a ruse was far too dangerous. What if Moran saw through his disguise? What if he weren't alone? What if he were guarded by a sniper? What if ...

"All these are good questions, but none of them are deterrent enough to abandon the plan. Moran would hardly be fool enough to ruin himself in such a public manner. The crowded and smokey club will make it nearly impossible for a sniper to gain a clear aim, absolutely necessary with such a weapon. Besides, you haven't seen my disguise yet." He patted my arm and held up a recently purchased bottle from which emanated such a strong smell, I couldn't help but wince.

"Hydrogen peroxide," Holmes said. "We may thank Doctor Wolffenstein for its newfound stability."

"What are you going do with that?" I asked, nervous as always when Holmes decided to play mad scientist with strange chemicals.

"It has a most interesting cosmetic use, Watson," he said, grabbing a flannel from the pile left to us by the maid. "I'll need the water closet for my experimentations for the next few hours while you prepare for your unhappy evening at the club."

"What shall I wear?"

"Your coat and shirtsleeves will be enough. You are an English reprobate tonight, careless in every way. They will be drawn to you like moths to a flame. Just be sure to take only what monies you wish to lose and leave the rest with me. Two hundred pounds should suffice."

I nearly choked on the amount, but understood his reasoning. It would have to be outrageous enough to draw Moran in, but not so terrible as to impoverish us. It was with a nervous hand I prepared that evening, counting out the money pound by pound, putting aside the amount we were to part with, dressing as carelessly as I could manage. A slick of pomade in my hair turned me into enough of a rake to pass, not that the other gamblers would give a second glance to my appearance once I started laying my bets down.

"You are to lose naturally, Watson," Holmes called out to me, still ensconced as he was in the water closet. "Play as you normally would."

"What if I win?"

His laughter at that suggestion made me sigh, but he was right. I was an abysmal card player.

"Now, are you ready for my transformation?"

"How frightened will I be?" I asked sarcastically, not at all prepared for what I was about to see. At the sight of him, I stumbled back in shock at his drastically altered appearance. "My God. Holmes!"

"Yah?" he asked, in a guttural German accent which perfectly matched his blonde, close-cropped hair. Even his eyebrows were lightened to a perfect shade of Nordic gold and his salt-pale complexion did not suffer for the transformation, but was enhanced by it. With the tailored evening clothes and a monocle, he would be unrecognizable as anything but a high-born German national.

"I believe you owe me a promise now, Holmes," I said when I was sufficiently composed to speak. "You will return to your natural coloring once we are returned safe to England."

He laughed. "We shall have a contest to see who returns to his former self first. I dare say you have a very good chance of winning though. Devilish disguise this was. I hope I've done no permanent damage."

"I hope so too." I handed him the rest of money minus my gambling pool. "Wish me luck. Or should that be bad luck?"

"Don't you dare start winning now, Watson," he warned, with only a hint of humor. "Be as close to yourself as you can be."

"Whoever that is these days," I sighed. Reaching out, I took Holmes' hand to shake. "To the game, once again."

Holmes' eyes shadowed for a moment and in a burst of uncharacteristic emotion, he reeled me in closely for an embrace. "Be safe. For without you ..." Suddenly embarrassed, he let me go. He straightened his cuffs and nodded imperiously at me. "I will be waiting up to hear all your observations."

I nodded back at him and took a deep breath before heading out into the cool evening air.

0o0o0o

The club was as close and smokey as Holmes had warned. I worked my way through the tables easily enough; I'd been to places like this more times in my life than I'd like to admit. I took the offered drinks with a smile and pretended to quaff them while pouring most of them out in secret - a trick Holmes himself taught me.

I looked around for a serious table. The one where men stared at their cards with hooded eyes, their fingers never leaving their chips. I found one far away from the door, placed there probably on purpose, to discourage those who might try to run out on their losses.

With a carefree grin, I called over a server and ordered drinks for the entire group, throwing a five pound note on his tray when he arrived. "Keep the rest, my good man," I cried cheerfully. "Plenty more where that came from."

That was more than enough to gain me a seat at the table where I proceeded to play normally, losing at slow but steady pace. I feigned mild consternation but made vague allusions to the fact that there was no current limit to my funds. The other players were extremely friendly - of course, they would be - and loathe to leave the table for a moment, but one of them finally rose, claiming that his marriage wouldn't survive another moment of game play.

We made much merriment out of that and I have to say, I was not having all that bad of a time, playing hands and laughing with the other players, the universal language of gaming making us easy comrades. As long as I was losing and content to do so, all was well.

How foolish it was of me to allow such distractions, to let my guard down thus. For when the seat was taken again by a new player, I barely bothered to look up, merely dealing him in with a grin.

A grin that faded, replaced by stone cold dread as across from me sat the unmistakable and terrible visage of Colonel Sebastian Moran.

0o0o0o

to be continued ...

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